


We've Got Strength and Health

by a_man_falls_in_a_hole



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy, Inappropriate Use of Fans, Sleep Deprivation, Underage Drinking, and that's not what it sounds like, changing majors at an alarming rate, it might get a little serious later but it's mostly silliness, little Democrat nerd family goes to college, there is some Donna/Josh but it's not the main point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_man_falls_in_a_hole/pseuds/a_man_falls_in_a_hole
Summary: The West Wing characters re-imagined in a college setting, sophomore year. A healthy mix of fluff and angst ensues.





	1. Week 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very much a therapeutic one-shot in response to the horrific event that will be happening later today. (For context, it's January 20th, 2017). But if all goes as planned, there will be more to follow.

“Remind me why I agreed to room with you?” Toby asked.  
Sam is perched precariously on the rails of their two twin beds, meticulously taping theatre playbills to the off-white wall.  
“Because I’m quirky and loveable,” Sam answered, dismounting with a wobble he turned into a flourish.  
“You keep telling yourself that,” said Toby, kneeling to open the last of his boxes.  
“It’s Tobias!”  
Toby looked up to see Josh leaning on the doorframe, bush of brown curls even more unkempt than last year. Sam leapt up to pull him into an aggressive I-missed-you-all-summer embrace. Josh laughed and hugged back and shot Toby a peace sign. Toby rolled his eyes and lifted a middle finger in acknowledgement.  
“Joshua. Let’s set some ground rules for the semester. First, never call me Tobias.”  
“Would you prefer—” Josh started but shut up with a smirk when Toby shot him a glare.  
“Toby!” Josh exclaimed.  
“Yes?”  
“What happened to your face?” Josh came closer to examine the full beard that was attempting to take over Toby’s face.  
“It’s called a beard.”  
Josh reached out a hand, but Toby swatted it away. “I know it makes you jealous, Peach Fuzz, but no touching.”  
Josh scoffed. “I’m not jealous.”  
“I am,” interjected Sam, in an awe-filled voice.  
“You look like you’re 40,” Josh mocked.  
“I look Jewish,” Toby retorted.  
“You look like my rabbi who died last year.”  
“You have a good memory for faces you only see once a year.”  
“We’re only sophomores, and you’re over here trying to sneak into the faculty lounge.”  
“They have donuts.”  
Josh laughed good-naturedly, and Toby couldn’t help but crack a grin. “I’m going to go unpack. Got to establish my territory before the roommate gets here.”  
“Who’re you rooming with?” asked Sam.  
“Got stuck with a freshy.”  
“Yikes.”  
“Yeah.”  
“See you at the hall meeting tonight,” said Sam.  
Josh and Toby both scoffed. “Like I’m coming?” said Josh.  
“There’ll be cookies,” said Sam.  
“What time?”


	2. Mandatory Meetings

"Don't do drugs, kids."  
C.J. crossed her arms and stared down her residents with a look that said "I'm being paid to say this, but I'm not going to waste my time trying to actually convince you of anything.”  
"OK, but aren't you paid to say that?" Josh pointed out.  
"Yes."  
"And potheads are going to do what potheads do, regardless of what you say?" he went on, mouth half full of vanilla Oreo.  
"Yes, I imagine they will."  
"OK. Just checking."  
"Thank you for your concern, uh...Josh," she said, squinting at his name tag. "Any other questions?"

She scanned the faces of the students sprawled on couches and beanbags in the first floor lounge. It was a potentially insufferable coed mix of freshmen and sophomores that she knew would be her main source of stress this semester. Looking at the excited faces, she could anticipate which ones she would be busting for trying to pass weed off as a succulent and which she would fuss over when they were homesick or got a bad grade. Some, like this Josh kid, were gonna be both, and she hated that. The one with the beard, she had to keep an eye on. He was probably going to scare the freshmen.

"No questions?,” she asked. “OK, well you're all sort of adults now. Stay sober, have some fun, ruin your life...it's your choice. I will say, however, that if you do stuff in the dorm I will smell it, I will write you up, and then neither of us will be happy. Also, meth will rot your teeth. Got it?

The predictable jumble of nods and "oks" and snickers followed.

CJ pushed herself off the table. "Thank you for coming to this mandatory meeting and getting crumbs everywhere. The custodial staff will no doubt thank you. Now go get some sleep before classes start."

The trio headed upstairs. Josh recited the mental notes he had made of every female in the dorm, Toby cursed him out for being so shallow, and Sam learned some new words.

* * *

“Can I help you unpack?”  
“Are you asking if you are physically able to help me unpack—” rephrased CJ, without looking up from the suitcase she was buried in.  
“You are terrible.” Danny flopped onto the bed in a grand gesture of protest at CJ’s sass. The shitty twin bed made a panicked noise, its own form of protest.  
“Could you not break my bed on the first night back?” CJ asked him.  
“Are you saying we could break it some other night . . .?”  
CJ raised an eyebrow and threw a shoe at him.  
“If you throw the other one I could put them away for you,” Danny pointed out.  
CJ threw the other shoe. She moved to open the closet door, but found it wouldn’t open more than a foot. “Maybe it’s caught on something.”  
“Either that or it’s broken like most of the utilities in this fucking dump,” said Danny.  
“You have a point.”  
“You gonna declare this week?” asked Danny, as he set about sorting through CJ’s impressive array of shoes.  
“I think I’ll talk to my advisor first,” responded CJ. “I know I want to do Creative Writing, but I need . . . I don’t know. I need reassurance from a profession in the field that I can actually make it work.”  
“Makes sense. She can’t meet this week?”  
“Next week.”  
“Gotcha.”  
“Well. I’m going in.” CJ dropped to her knees and crawled awkwardly into the closet, assessing the situation and finding free clothes hangers and condom wrappers in the process.  
“Your butt looks good from this angle,” commented Danny, noting the way she was awkwardly sticking out of the narrow opening.  
“You bet it does,” CJ replied from within.  
“You know what your parents were saying the other day is bullshit, right?”  
“Yeah, but it’s the worst kind of bullshit—the kind that makes sense.”  
“But they’re blowing it out of proportion,” Danny insisted. “You get a degree in Creative Writing, it’s not like employers see that and automatically chuck your resume in the shredder. Sure it’s not STEM, but you’re still very employable.”  
“Sure, but . . . they’re sort of right, aren’t they? It’s going to be harder to get a job in my field,” replied CJ, elbow banging on the something in the dimness of the closet.  
“Harder doesn’t mean impossible. Anyway, you’re . . . People will want to hire you.”  
“Let’s hope so, ‘cause I’m doing it either way.”  
“That’s the spirit. Plus, you’re doing the boring thing and combining it with Comm.”  
“Hey—you say “boring” and I say “safe.” Plus it’s not boring, I liked my Comm class.”  
“Pssshhh . . . boooring.”  
“You’re boring,” she shot back.  
CJ emerged, her hair flustered and some scraps of loose trash clutched in one hand. She leaned back on her heels and looked at Danny. “Thank you, though. For saying that.”  
Danny shrugged, grinning at her.  
“You want pizza?” she asked, jumping up and tossing the handful in the trash.  
“Does the Pope want pizza?”  
“You are very, very strange.”  
“And very, very hungry.”  
CJ took a box out of the mini-fridge. Leftovers from the last of many (too many) RA training sessions. She tossed it to Danny.  
“Microwave’s downstairs. Take advantage of it before it is permanently stained with Lord knows what.”  
“Will do.” Danny got up, headed toward CJ. “Hey.”  
“Hey,” said CJ.  
He gave her a peck on the cheek and headed out of the room.  
“Don’t eat it all on your way back up here,” she called after him.  
“Quiet hours!” he yelled.  
“Fuck off,” she yelled back.


	3. Tangents

“I have NOT missed the food.”  
Toby pushed his tray away, his features more disgusted than usual.  
“You wonder why I only eat the fries,” commented Josh, stuffing a few into his mouth.  
“Ok, but God forbid I want some decent pasta,” Toby went on. “Or even some vegetables that aren’t nuked into mushy submission.”  
“You know the word ‘overcooked,’ yeah?”  
“Verbosity is a coping mechanism.”  
“I had no idea,” Josh muttered, swiping up some more ketchup with his ever-loyal fries.  
“Hey guys!” Sam popped up out of nowhere, dumping his hefty messenger bag on the seat next to Toby.  
“Hi,” said Toby.  
“Yo,” said Josh, mouth half-full.  
“Don’t get the pasta,” Toby advised.  
“Get the fries.”  
“OK,” said Sam, heading for the cafeteria.  
“And get me more while you’re at it!” called Josh.  
Toby rolled his eyes.  
* * *  
“How was Econ?” Sam asked.  
“I’m going to strangle my prof,” replied Josh drily, sliding his tray onto the conveyor belt and adjusting his backpack.  
“Oh. Oh dear.”  
“We’re going to be late,” muttered Toby. Sam was inspecting the fruit situation, finally picking the banana he judged was the highest quality.  
“Potassium!” he cried, waving the fruit under Toby’s nose.  
Toby swatted him away. “Let’s go, Sam.”  
They headed out of the cafeteria, turning in the direction of Hoffmann, the Humanities building. A September sun printed its warmth on their faces, but the leaves crackling beneath their hurried steps spoke of the coming fall.  
“Why do you want to strangle him?” continued Sam.  
“Who do you have,” asked Toby.  
“Bartlet,” Josh replied.  
Toby blinked once, humor darting in his eyes. “God be with you.”  
“Wait, what’s wrong with him, I don’t get it,” whined Sam.  
“He’s just . . .” Josh began. “He’s smart, he’s energetic, but . . .”  
“The tangents,” finished Toby.  
“The TANGENTS. Exactly.”  
“He is troubled with the need to depart every random piece of knowledge to his students,” Toby explained.  
“Ah,” said Sam.  
“Let’s just say that his Econ 100 class was what made me realize I wanted to History.”  
“Because he talked about history? And not econ—”  
“He handed out the syllabus and then talked about the Gilded Age for 50 minutes,” explained Josh.  
“Ah,” said Sam again.  
“If he actually starts talking Economics,” Toby went on, yanking open Hoffmann’s door, “it means something is wrong and you’ll want to steer clear.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Josh, following him inside.  
They navigated the pre-class hallway swarm, found room 121, and settled into seats just as the professor was writing his name on the chalkboard. Toby loved this building. It was the oldest academic building on campus and the only one without whiteboards and state-of-the-art projectors. For some reason, the antiquated sound of chalk on blackboard calmed him, helped him focus. He pulled out a pen and notebook.  
The short man dropped the chalk and turned to face the class, his hands in the pockets of a suit which matched his greying hair.  
“Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Leo McGarry. Welcome to Constitutional Law.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for the next installment, where you'll meet Donna.


	4. Midnight Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene came to me during one my late shifts working at my college library. (Write what you know, I guess?) It's just a little vignette that sparked my ideas for this AU.

Donna made her rounds, pushing in chairs locking up doors, turning off lights. Most students were gone by this point, knowing the library would be closing at midnight and hoping to catch the last shuttle before it did. Plus it was only the second week of the semester, and nobody had any big assignments due. She didn’t find any stragglers on the fourth floor, so she radioed down a crackly “Fourth floor clear.”  
She didn’t mind working the late shift, but tonight she had a headache and she knew she’d have to wake up early if she wanted to finish the reading before History the next day. It was a cursory glance through the shelves, a breeze through the lonesome third floor, and then a—  
jump when she took a turn and almost tripped on a hobo.  
“Jesus, Mary, and J—” she sort of whispered, sort of yelled. The figure stirred and she discovered it was not, in fact, a lost hobo but a student who was trying to be functioning and awake but was not having good success. He had been sprawled in the aisle, with a heavy book open on his chest, but now he was sputtering, folding and unfolding himself in an attempt to get upright.  
The Wisconsin in Donna apologized with a “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”  
The boy was blinking like somebody gasping for air after a deep dive. “No, no—it’s…it’s okay, Econ’ll do that to ya.”  
The headache in Donna reminded, “Yeah, well, the library’s closing.”  
“Shit, yes…library—ok well thanks.”  
Donna laughed awkwardly, “Yeah.”  
“Yeah, um bye.” He gathered up his things in a hasty armful, slung his backpack over a shoulder and left.  
Donna noticed as he turned to leave that his cheek was patterned with carpet.  
The doors swung shut behind him.  
She clicked on her walkie-talkie. “Third floor clear.”


	5. Fiddler on the Roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's theater auditions don't go well, and Toby and Josh try to console him by getting him wasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, it has been a LONG time since I posted like SHIT. To make up for this hiatus, this chapter is a little longer than the previous ones! Enjoy!

“If you yawn one more time, I swear to God . . .” Toby gave his friend a look as Josh tried to smother another yawn behind his sleeve.  
“Sorry, I was up late at the library.” Josh shook his head and shifted, rousing himself. An early fall evening was seeping through the lounge’s large windows, lulling Josh to sleep in the worn armchair. It doused the room with a drowsy warmth, wringing out the day in a mix of golden light and dusky shadows.  
“So go to sleep, genius,” said Toby. “Your yawning is making me tired,”  
“This Econ paper isn’t going to write itself,” moaned Josh, rubbing his face.  
“Okay, so come join me at the table before that chair swallows you.”  
Josh sighed and heaved himself up, tossing his econ text on the table. He moved to sit in the chair but before he could Sam rounded the corner of the room and flopped defeatedly down across from Toby.  
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” said Toby, eyebrows raised at Sam’s distraught face.  
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you going to sit here, Josh?” mumbled Josh, casting around for another chair. “Oh, why yes I was Sam, but it’s alright, go right ahead, make yourself—” His sarcastic drabble trailed off when he saw his friend’s face. “What is it?”  
“No big deal,” sighed Sam, “but all youthful hopes and dreams have come crashing down.”  
Josh raised an eyebrow.  
“Theatre auditions were tonight,” Toby filled in.  
Sam sat up straighter, gesticulated his words with his hands as if trying to prove his Thesbian worth. “I could understand it last year when they gave me one-line parts, I can take one for the team. Freshmen aren’t the leads, I get that. But this is ridiculous. I’m acting my butt off and this is what they give me.”  
“What was the—” asked Josh.  
“Fiddler on the Roof.”  
“And—?” asked Toby.  
“Choir,” scoffed Sam. “I’m not going to be in the fucking choir.”  
“So you’re quitting?”  
“I would have been a model Motel,” snapped Sam.  
“Ah yes, because you’re the most Jewish kid I know,” muttered Toby.  
“Model Motel,” chuckled Josh.  
“Shut up Josh,” said Toby.  
“I’m so tired,” said Sam, running a hand over his face. “I can’t keep doing this. The rejection is too much for me.”  
Toby rolled his eyes but Josh shot him a look. He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder.  
“You know what I say? Fuck ‘em,” said Josh. “Those idiots don’t know what they’re missing.”  
“Maybe I was too emotive,” pondered Sam.  
“No, could it be?” mumbled Toby.  
Josh glared at him, and turned back to his disappointed friend. “Sam. Forget about them, it’s their loss. Don’t let them get under your skin.”  
“Thanks man,” said Sam, forcing a smile. “I’m pretty tired, so I’ll just go to my room and listen to ‘Why God?’ until I fall asleep.”  
Toby slammed his book shut. “Ok, enough. You’re being pitiful and you know I can’t deal with you when you’re pitiful. We’re going out.”  
Josh jumped up. “I like this plan.”  
“No, guys, I just want to—” whined Sam.  
“You’re not locking yourself in your room with Miss Saigon and Rent,” said Toby, firmly. “Partly because it’s not a healthy reaction and partly because I’m your roommate and I don’t want to have to strangle you in your sleep.”  
“And getting wasted is a healthy reaction?” asked Sam.  
“Absolutely.”  
Sam looked hesitant, but between Toby’s threats and Josh’s encouragement, the gloom and doom on his face had lifted.  
“Ok. Ok, yeah, let’s do it,” said Sam. “Fuck ‘em, I’m gonna drink to forget!”  
“Hell yeah!,” said Josh. “Let’s go get trashed.”

“We haven’t done this since the fireball incident,” remarked Sam as they walked up to the first open party house they could find.  
“Don’t remind me,” groaned Toby.  
“Relax, guys,” said Josh. “Tonight’s different. Anyway, this is for Sam!” He raised an awkward hand at Sam for a high-five but Sam only grazed his palm.  
“Look at the elbow, dude,” said Josh.  
“Hey, we were walking, moving targets are harder to—”  
“You suck, dorks,” pointed out Toby.  
The screen door swung shut behind them and Sam’s glasses instantly fogged up. The trio strolled over to the kitchen counter where a couple of seniors were mixing drinks.  
“I’ll take your strongest medicine,” announced Sam, wiping his glasses carefully on his shirt.  
One of the guys had a [university] bandana wrapped around his head. “I can offer you jungle juice, jungle juice, or jungle juice.”  
Sam looked back at Toby and Josh. “I’ll have the juice of the jungle,” he decided.  
“One jungle juice, coming right up,” the guy said, distractedly, sliding over an already-filled Solo cup while checking his phone.  
Josh and Toby each took a cup, and the three stood around for a bit awkwardly. Everybody on the first floor was either busy running the party or making out on couches. The trio nodded at each other and followed the thumping bass downstairs.  
The thick cloud of body odor and basement welcomed the friends as they stepped into the darkness, which was countered only by big-bulb Christmas lights strung around the ceiling. An R&B song was blaring from a makeshift surround sound stereo and bodies bobbed to the beat. The more drunk bodies added an oddly alluring syncopation to the rhythm with their poorly-timed air fists and uncoordinated body rolls.  
“Whooo!” Josh yelled, unconvincingly. He started to nod and duck his body to the unfamiliar song.  
“Woot,” said Toby, side-stepping to barely avoid someone sloshing their drink on him.  
Sam threw his head back and gulped down the entire cup. Josh and Toby raised their eyes at him when he finished, wiped his mouth, and declared “Another!” He marched off in search of another drink.  
It was unbearably hot, and Toby and Josh weren’t drunk enough not to notice. They moved distractedly with the music while they scanned eyes through the humid swarm, occasionally moving position to say hi to a classmate or work acquaintance. Sam came back ten minutes later, ruddy-cheeked and offering new drinks for the three of them. A new song—clearly popular because everybody started screaming generically—came on the speakers, and Toby was trying to remember the name of it when—  
“Hey residents!”  
The three turned to see a very cheery CJ. She was pressed up against her boyfriend, hand pressed on his chest. Josh wondered if she meant to keep it there, or if the humidity had stuck it permanently to his T-shirt.  
“It’s my favorite residents,” CJ explained loudly to Danny, who exchanged nods with the guys.  
“I’ve never seen your hair look this bad,” remarked Josh, half-yelling over the noise.  
“I’ve never seen you genuinely happy to see us,” said Toby.  
“I’ve already had THREE of these,” added Sam, in a cheerful roar.  
CJ nodded politely and eyed Sam, still, even in her state, checking in with the situation.  
Danny was getting worked up into the beat of the music and his dancing started to pull her away.  
“Ok, well don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she yelled over her shoulder.  
They danced for a few more minutes before Sam lost a grip on his drink and it spilled on his and Toby’s shoes.  
“Oh my god,” laughed Sam, hysterically. “It’s a good thing we thought to change our shoes before!” Usually loafers or Oxfords boys, the three had dug up their Converse All-Stars, which they only used when they threw hoops.  
Toby, less amused and also less drunk, took Sam by the arm and steered him towards the stairs. “I’m gonna get this one a glass of water,” he called back to Josh.  
Josh raised his cup in acknowledgement and continued to squint at the couple grinding ungracefully against the wall.  
Pour some sugar on me  
In the name of love  
Josh continued to scan the crowd for friendly faces but most of the people here Josh recognized as athletes or STEM majors, both groups of people he did not get along well with. He briefly considered following Toby upstairs, because—God, he was sweaty—because, Christ it was hot down here—too many bodies. He mentally shrugged it off, and focused on the beating, driving beat.  
Pour some sugar on me  
Come on fire me up  
It was an oldie, but a classic party song, or at least it was working out well for the couple against the wall. Josh recognized it because whenever it came on the radio, his dad would turn up the volume and bang his head to the music. At the time, Josh didn’t get what the lyrics meant, but he liked to bang his head along too.  
Red light, yellow light, green light go!  
The colored lights on the walls were going blurry, and Josh wondered if he was drunk. He’d only had one drink. Then why was he so sweaty and—  
Crazy little woman in a one-man show  
Josh squinted at the lights but they were blinking out now, flickering in time with the—booming—bass¬. And the heat was pressing into his skull, pressing on his chest—  
Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love  
Things were black for only a half of a second but Josh couldn’t hear the lyrics anymore, it was just a dull thud in the background, landing in time with his footsteps as he squeezed his constricted body through the mass of people and gasped for air and slipped on something but caught the bannister of the stairs and pounded up them and—  
“Josh!”  
Ran into Toby. Josh blinked and tried to speak but he had thought he was dancing but he was on the stairs. The volume in his brain switched back on.  
“Josh, are you okay?”  
Josh coughed and find that he had words, he had: “I’m fine, just overheated.”  
Toby nodded. “Me too. Plus I have this pounding headache. I can’t tell if it’s from the music or from the stupidity of the people I was just talking to. Did you know, Josh, they were telling me about—”  
Somebody was trying to come up the stairs behind Josh and he was sandwiched between a stranger and Toby and things were closing up again, important things, his throat, and—  
“Toby, let’s go,” he said, and he must have meant it because Toby stopped talking and Josh could feel the person behind him must have pushed him because he went hurtling out the screen door at the top of the stairs into the  
Quick-as-a-slap cold night air. Josh collapsed onto a decorative rock in the garden and put his hands in his face and felt the cold air cool him off, bring him clean air, full air, good air.  
Toby arrived a minute later with Sam, who was irked to be torn away from making what he thought was very intelligent commentary on Foucault.  
“Josh threw up,” Toby told Sam.  
“Nooooooooo,” groaned Sam.  
“I did?” asked Josh.  
Toby shot him a look that said ‘no, but we need a reason to get Sam to leave also what was that back there?’  
“Don’t worry Sam, I’m feeling better,” Josh said to Toby.  
Toby accepted this and started steering Sam back toward campus. Josh walked behind them quiet, but feeling better by the minute. Just a little overheated, he explained to himself.

They tiptoed into their res hall, and Sam sshed them dramatically as he looked both ways to see if the RA coast was clear.  
“And they didn’t give him a part,” said Toby sarcastically.  
“America lost today,” said Josh.  
They opened the windows and switched on the box fan in Toby and Sam’s room, and Josh and Sam made alien noises into it while Toby kicked at them half-heartedly. Sam ate a Pop-tart and the three of them drank some more water. Clearing off his bed, Sam found the beat-up script he’d used for the audition earlier that day. Seeing his face clear over, Josh grabbed it from him and flopped own in front of the fan again.  
”’Why should he consider me now?’” Josh cried into the fan, which distorted his speech. “’I’m only a poor tailor.’” He emphasized the words by dramatically beating his fist into the carpet.  
Sam caught on quick, laughing. “’And I’m only the daughter of a poor milkman. Just talk to him.”  
“’Tzeitel, if your father says no, that’s it, it’s final . . .”  
Toby interjected with a kick at Josh’s mispronunciation.  
“Fuck off, Bar Mitzvah Boy,” said Josh, seriously. “We’re acting here.”  
Sam and Toby burst into laughter, and the three of them kept reading lines into the fan’s whirring hum, trying to make each line more bizarre than the last. The fan kept humming after they’d all fallen asleep on the carpet, burying the trio in white noise and summery sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope to continue the story this summer while I have more time. Really enjoyed writing this one. :)
> 
> Also, because I'm a student so citations are now compulsions:
> 
> Credit to:  
> "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard  
> "Fiddler on the Roof" by Joseph Stein and Sholem Aleichem


	6. It Was Nice To Meet You Conscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roommate problems are brewing. Josh and Donna meet "officially."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, real life college has been distracting me from fictional college. Still, here's the next installment of our west wing friends muddling through sophomore year. Hope you enjoy!

“What are you doing at breakfast?” Sam asked, moving his backpack so Josh could have a place to sit. It was a well-known fact in their friend group that Josh rolled out of bed 5 minutes before morning classes and therefore never ate breakfast at the dining hall. After he ran out of the granola bars his mom had bought him, he had stopped eating anything before lunch.  
“I couldn’t sleep,” explained Josh, rubbing his cheek, “and because I was awake I realized I was hungry, so I figured . . .”  
“Why couldn’t you—?” stared Sam, stirring up his yogurt.  
“I’m glad you asked,” said Josh. “Because my stupid freshman roomie is too hardcore, and he stays up all night studying.”  
“With the light on?”  
“With his desk lamp on.”  
“And you can’t sleep with it—”  
“It’s called light-sensitivity.”  
“I see. Did you talk to him about it?”  
Josh bit into his toast. “Nope.”  
“So, what are you going to do about it?”  
“I dunno. Gee, I should come to breakfast more often.”  
“Your toast is that good?” asked Sam incredulously.  
“Nah, but free jam!”

 

After classes, the three went to the library to put in a few hours of studying. Sam proofread Josh’s final draft of his Econ paper. Toby worked on his weekly article for the school paper. Josh did the Myers-Briggs test (again), this time trying to pick answers that would get him INTJ. Toby had remarked helpfully that his biggest hang-up was the “Thinking” letter. Josh had kicked him, but sure enough, he ended up with INFJ. He shut the laptop. Toby went back to the dorm to get his clothes out of the dryer before some “impatient lunatic freshman” threw them all over the dirty floor. Sam handed back Josh’s computer.  
“Looks good, man,” he said. “I cleaned up the phrasing of some sentences, and added some commas, but otherwise it was great.”  
“Cool, thanks,” replied Josh, scrolling through to note the edits Sam had made.  
“Oh, and there was a misplaced modifier on page 3.”  
“Ok. Did you check the citations too? Because Bartlet is a stickler for those things.”  
“Yeah, they look fine to me,” said Sam. “Although I’m not very familiar with Chicago Style.”  
“Neither am I,” said Josh. “MLA all the way.”  
“I think he’ll like it,” said Sam, kindly.  
“He better, I need to make him like me,” sighed Josh. “I fell asleep in his class today, and he was pissed.”  
“Who was pissed?” said Toby, returned from his laundry rescue mission.  
“Nothing,” said Josh, waving a hand. “Ready?”

Philosophy Club was really more of Sam and Toby’s thing, but Josh said he wanted an excuse to ignore homework, so he went anyway. It was an hour of confusion and vague but heated discussion; an hour he would never get back. Sam and Toby seemed to enjoy themselves though; they continued discussing morality and cultural relativism on the way to dinner.

 

It was spaghetti bolognaise, again. Or, as Toby liked to refer it, spaghetti botulaise. Grilled cheese it is, decided Josh.  
As the three of them started the search for an empty table, Toby remarked to Sam that they should get CJ’s opinion on the matter. At this point, Josh could no longer remember what the “matter” was, but he liked CJ so when he spotted her tall frame sticking up from the sea of heads he gave the others a shout. They headed over to the table, Josh with his grilled cheese, Toby with his spaghetti sans sauce, and Sam with his latest specialty sandwich invention.  
“May we join you?” asked Sam.  
When CJ looked up she had her mouth full, but nodded eagerly and motioned for them to sit. She was sitting with a girl, a girl with the straightest blonde hair and a pointed face, a girl who—Josh suddenly remembered where he had seen her before. She had kicked him out of the library.  
“We can make room,” she was saying, pulling an unused chair from the table next to them and moving her backpack so the three boys could all have a seat. As luck would have it, Josh had been poised to sit next to her before he had remembered who she—  
“Guys, this is Donna,” CJ introduced her. “She was one of my residents last year, she’s also the coolest so don’t try and compete, I like her more.”  
“Hi,” said Toby.  
“Nice to meet you!” said Sam, reaching across Josh’s plate to shake Donna’s hand.  
“Yo,” said Josh. Sam and Toby both threw him quizzical looks. Josh didn’t notice; he was still trying to gauge if Donna recognized him.  
Donna answered his question for him. “Aren’t you the guy who fell asleep in the—”  
“Haha, yep, that was me,” said Josh, reddening but also glad they were on the same page.  
“What’s this?” asked CJ. “You guys have met?”  
Josh and Donna looked at each other, and responded with a “sort of.”  
“This sounds like a story folks,” said CJ.  
“It does,” agreed Sam.  
“He can tell it later,” interrupted Toby. “Right now we need to know your opinion on—”  
Josh instinctively tuned out the conversation that commenced on the other side of the table. Instead he moved chips around on his plate and turned to Donna. “I hadn’t actually mentioned that to my friends,” he explained.  
“Oh,” said Donna. “Well, it’s not a big deal, you know.”  
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”  
“You wouldn’t believe the number of people I find asleep when I make final rounds at midnight,” Donna assured him.  
“Really?”  
“Well,” Donna measured, “well, no, you’re actually the first time that’s happened to me.”  
Josh groaned.  
“But still don’t be embarrassed!”  
“I probably had drool all over my face,” Josh pointed out.  
“You didn’t,” Donna confirmed.  
They drifted off for a minute, and Josh noticed that CJ had apparently been successfully absorbed into the debate. She had pushed aside her dinner and was leaning forward onto the table.  
“So, what was it?”  
“What was what,” asked Josh distracted, mouth half-full.  
“The book,” clarified Donna. “Accounting or something…?”  
“Oh that. Econ.”  
“Equally boring.”  
Josh shrugged.  
“It’s your major, isn’t it?” said Donna.  
“Yep.”  
“Ooops.”  
“So, what’s your major?” asked Josh, grinning at her.  
“Psychology, I think,” said Donna, stirring her bowl of cold soup absent-mindedly. “Maybe Communications. Also maybe a French minor?”  
“Haha, ok so Undecided then,” said Josh.  
“Shut up, I have time.”  
“You remind me of my roommate, he has like four majors—oh, speaking of which, CJ?”  
CJ was startled from her argument with Toby and Sam. “What?”  
“Charlie’s keeping me up at night, could you talk to him?”  
“Did you talk to him about it?”  
“Well, not yet but—”  
“Talk to him first.” CJ’s verdict was final; she went back to the discussion.  
“Roommate problems, eh?” remarked Donna.  
Josh shrugged. “It’s fine.”  
“Okay.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well,” said Donna. “I have to go, I have to practice.”  
“Practice?”  
“Oh, clarinet.”  
“You play the clarinet?” asked Josh.  
“Yeah, hence the practicing.”  
“Right, right, I just,” he fumbled. “It’s cool, though. My dad loves Benny Goodman.”  
“That’s cool, yeah Goodman’s the king. Anyway,” she said, collecting her things.  
“Right, well. It was nice to meet you when I was conscious.”  
Donna made an amused face.  
“That sounded weird.”  
“It’s fine,” she said, grinning. “Nice to meet you too.”  
“I’ll see you around.”  
“See you.”


	7. Hate Tattooed on Brick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hate crime occurs on campus. CJ and Toby use their words.

Chapter 7

It must have happened overnight. It was red and it was white and it was ugly. It was impossible to miss, and those on their way to class stopped, stunned. Stomachs churned. Heads tilted, confused. Some grimaced and continued on. Others hurried to another entrance, shaking their heads. It was printed on the brick wall right below a second-floor window. An office window. The office belonged to the professor of Hebrew and Judaic Studies. The grass below was stained with flecks of red and white.

The door almost swung off its hinges when Toby burst through it. Sam practically yelped and Josh started from the nap he was taking on Toby’s bed.  
“Toby—” started Sam.  
“I swear to God, I will destroy these—” he spat, throwing his backpack on the bed, where it Josh caught it clumsily.  
“Toby,” started Josh.  
“Slow down,” said Sam, putting aside his homework, forehead knotting in concern.  
“Those sons of bitches,” continued Toby. His furious pacing seemed all the more furious in the tight constraints of the dorm room.  
“Toby!” exclaimed Sam. The other two turned to him, taken aback by the sudden command in his voice. “Slow down, explain what happened.”  
Toby snapped back into his rage, if now slightly more focused. “Some son of a bitch spray-painted a swastika on Creuizer Hall. Right by Professor Jenson’s office. The bastard’s gonna be sorry he ever—”  
“You’re kidding me,” said Sam.  
“Fuck,” breathed Josh.  
“Is it still there?” asked Sam.  
“It’s still there,” confirmed Toby, grabbing a water bottle out of the mini-fridge. He slammed the door shut, and Josh winced, his arms still wrapped around Toby’s backpack. “I walked past it on my way back from work.”  
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam was saying again, when there was a knock on the door. C.J. was opening the door before she got a response.  
“I just heard what happened,” she said. “I wanted to see if you and Josh were okay.”  
“No, I’m not fucking okay,” snapped Toby.  
C.J.’s eyes narrowed, but she absorbed the blow and didn’t say anything.  
“And Josh is over here acting like he doesn’t have a Jewish bone in his body, he’s not even upset,” said Toby.  
“What the hell,” yelled Josh. “I’m upset, just because I’m not storming around like you doesn’t mean I’m not upset.”  
“Toby,” said C.J., voice even. “Everybody processes things differently, it’s okay to—”  
“To hell with processing,” shouted Toby, “I want this guy dead.”  
The room was silent, except for Toby’s heaving breathing. Sam was wide-eyed, his mouth sealed shut and trying not to tremble. Toby turned to wall, leaning a hand on it, steadying himself.  
“I’m sorry,” he said, in almost a whisper. “I’m not sorry for being angry but . . . I’m sorry for taking it out on you guys.”  
C.J. nodded to herself and crossed her arms, sighing. Josh relinquished his clutch on Toby’s backpack and slipped of the bed to approach his friend. He clapped him on the shoulder.  
“They’ll find out who did it, Toby,” he assured him. “They’ll find out who did it, and they’ll kick him out.”  
Sam and C.J. looked at each other. Toby tensed up.

They found out who did it. They did not kick him out. Within 32 hours, a haphazard search for the vandal and several witness accounts had narrowed the suspects to two or three people. One of them, when approached by the administration, had openly, almost pridefully, confessed. Within 48 hours, the president had sent an email to the student body condemning the act of hatred and explaining that a perpetrator had been identified. The message went on to explain that because of the “importance of anonymity regarding incidents like this” the student would not be suspended, but rather put on probation and “held in contempt of the college.”  
The email came on a Tuesday. The school newspaper which Toby and CJ wrote for published its weekly issues on Wednesdays. It was going to be a long night.

10:07pm  
“We need to be unapologetic,” said Toby.  
“Right,” said CJ, pulling up a Google Docs and adding bullet point after bullet point. “Unapologetic, but not hostile.  
“Sure, ‘cause hate crimes deserve a hospitable response,” muttered Toby under his breathe.  
“Toby, you know what I mean. If we’re hostile, they get defensive, and the last thing we need is neo-Nazis getting defensive.”  
“I know,” sighed Toby, running a hand over his forehead. “I know.”  
“Toby,” said CJ firmly. Toby looked at her. “We’re gonna get this son-of-a-bitch.”

12:43am  
The private study room was growing warm, and CJ blinked back sleep that threatened as she typed furiously. CJ wrote non-stop, hammering thoughts into keys, flooding the pages with words, the good with the bad, just writing writing writing, editing as she went and writing and writing.   
Toby paced relentlessly, his footsteps underlining the words he spoke, and the words he spat, and the words he whispered. Occasionally, the perfect line would come to him and he would throw himself in front of his laptop and type it in before it left him, but then he was back up again, his pacing in time with the whirring of his brain.  
“It is hate tattooed on brick,” he said. “Hate tattooed on brick,” slower now, drawing each syllable out.  
“That’s good, that’s good,” said CJ, tying her hair up into a sprig of a ponytail before returning to the keyboard. “It is not enough to condemn without punishing; without consequence, reprimand means nothing.”  
“We’re getting somewhere,” said Toby.  
“It has to be perfect,” said CJ. 

2:20am  
“The perpetrator lost the privilege of anonymity when he/she made his hatred public,” murmured Toby. He’d retrieved his rubber ball and was bouncing it, hypnotizing himself with its rhythmic thwump-catch-thwump-catch which was keeping him awake.  
C.J. was in the other room, taking a 20-minute power nap. She’d insisted she was fine, but Toby had noticed her hand shaking and practically forced to lie down.  
He was working through their introduction again, trying to solidify sentences when CJ came back in the room.  
“It’s only been 10 minutes,” warned Toby.  
“Danny called.”  
“Oh. Well you need to be sleeping.”  
“That’s what Danny said. That and—”  
“What,” prompted Toby.  
“Nothing,” said CJ, sitting down again.  
Toby pushed her chair, lightly, threatening to dump her out. “Seriously, go get some rest.”  
“I’m fine, Danny was worried but I’m fine.”  
There was a pause.  
“He said I was spending too much time on this.”  
“What.” Toby’s eyes narrowed.  
“But he’s not. Like he gets it,” insisted CJ, “he’s just worried that I’ll wear myself out.”  
“Right, but this is a cause worth taking time on,” rebutted Toby. “It’s more important than a grade. I wouldn’t pull an all-nighter for a grade, but this…”  
“I know,” CJ said softly. She paused, and Toby thought she was going to say something, but she suddenly grinned at him. “So, you’ve decided this is going to be an all-nighter?”  
“It has to be perfect,” said Toby, beginning to bounce his ball again.  
“If we’re staying up, I’m going to need some coffee,” announced CJ.  
“I’ll text Josh, have him pick something up at the Speedway.”  
CJ made a face. “Why on earth would he be up, he should be—”  
“He’s always up,” Toby cut her off. “He’ll be up.”  
CJ settled back into her chair, and looked at Toby. “I know it’s important, Toby,” she said quietly.  
“I know you know,” he said.

4:12am  
The shitty Speedway coffee Josh had brought them was kicking in and words were flying on and off the page faster than ever. Toby put on some Springsteen to keep them awake, and CJ was fueling herself with SunChips and Hershey’s kisses. Toby was regretting having eaten an entire pack of Twizzlers.  
“We’re close,” said CJ, scrolling up and down the page.  
“We just need a killer quote in the conclusion,” pondered Toby, rolling the ball in his hand.  
“Yeah,” said CJ absent-mindedly. She swiped away a message that had bbzzzd on her phone, and turned it onto “do not disturb” mode.  
Toby bounced his ball.

5:01am  
“Cornel West.” He announced it matter-of-factly, like it had been there all along, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
CJ looked at him, eyebrows raised. The faintest hint of dawn was reworking the shadows cast on the table. She imagined there must be birds chirping somewhere.  
“Never forget that justice is what love looks like in public.”  
CJ repeated it to herself in her head, mulling over the words, tasting them in her mouth, before she said, “That’s it.”  
“That’s it,” confirmed Toby.  
Toby slumped into his chair as CJ added the final touch to their hours of work. Toby checked his phone. “Class in 4 fucking hours.”  
“Sounds like a nap,” said CJ. Instincts and habits kicking in, she edited the piece into the issue and had sent it off to print services in 5 minutes.  
They wordlessly slipped through the hallways, bidding each other goodnight with a raised hand and crawling into bed in shaky exhaustion. Their bid for human decency was fossilized into an article; now all they could do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry once again for the long hiatus in between chapters. Wrote this a little while ago, finally got to editing it and up it goes! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!


	8. What's Next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh and Sam argue over a sweater. Donna gives Josh her number. Leo gives Toby some much-needed counsel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished an extraordinarily hellish finals week and now I finally have time to chill and watch TV and contemplate my existence and oh yeah, write. So I wrote. Here's the next installment of college AU West Wing. :-)

“Nobody has a bigger stick up their butt,” Josh stormed into Sam’s room.  
Sam was half-dressed and collecting his notebooks and shoving them into his leather messenger bag.  
“Whose butt are we talking about?” wondered Sam out loud  
“Bartlet’s.”  
“Yikes.”  
“I swear to God, he’s driving me insane Sam,” Josh fumed, pacing around the cramped dorm room.  
“And there’s a stick up his butt…why?”  
“He completely destroyed my paper in class today. Which is one thing, but you could tell he enjoyed doing it too.”  
“The one on trickle-down?” asked Sam.  
“Yeah,” replied Josh, running a hand through his hair. “He completely destroyed my argument, barely even listened to what I was saying.”  
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Wait, he believes in trickle-down economics?”  
“No, no of course not,” Josh waved a hand. “He’s against it, but for different reasons. He tore apart my points, called into question my sources. . .”  
“I mean,” started Sam cautiously.  
“It was the way he did it though, in front of everyone like…”  
“He does have a PhD. in Economics, I’m sure he knows a little about what he’s talking about,” Sam pointed out.  
Josh looked pointedly at him. Sam looked back, evaluating his friend’s face.  
“This is one of those times where you know the professor is right,” began Sam carefully.  
“Yeah.”  
“But you still want to bitch.”  
“Yeah.”  
“And I’m supposed to bitch with you.”  
“Nailed it.”  
Sam straightened up and feigned disgust. “How could he trash you like that,” he cried exaggeratedly, “what an idiot, that mother—”  
“Okay, okay,” laughed Josh. “Very funny.”  
“I am genuinely in shock that a professor would perform his job and give constructive criticism to a student. Inexcusable.”  
“I’m amazed the theatre folks didn’t cast you.”  
“Touché.”  
“Touché yourself,” laughed Josh. “Lunch?”  
“Yeah,” said Sam, pulling a bulky sweater over his undershirt.  
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” asked Josh, raising an eyebrow.  
“It’s the sweater your mom sent you last year. That you never wore,” pointed out Sam.  
“Yeah, for good reason.”  
“It’s comfortable,” protested Sam.  
“It’s dorky.”  
“And you aren’t?”  
“I have a certain level of poise.”  
“Ah yes, the poise that will follow you into your career as a professional ballerina.”  
“I never should have told you that,” sighed Josh, herding Sam out the door. 

Sam and Josh ran into Donna in the dining hall. She, like the boys, was vulturing around tables with her tray full, searching for a place to sit. The three banded together and used their numbers to very unsubtly pressure a table of four who had just finished eating to surrender their table. While they were eating, Sam came up with a signal system they could use to communicate across the hall so they could “divide and conquer” when on the prowl for an open table.  
Josh had a simpler suggestion, namely that Donna give him her number.  
“So if one of us finds a table, or is looking for a place to sit—”  
“Yeah sure, dork,” said Donna snatching his phone to put her number in.  
Josh blushed and Sam glared at him, making wild and silent gestures between him and his “dorky” sweater and Josh and Donna.

The boys pulled their scarves tighter as they left the hall and walked through October wind.  
“Where’s Toby?” asked Sam. “He’s going to be late.”  
“He’s in the thing,” replied Josh, thumbs and eyes hinged on his phone screen.  
“The thing?”  
“With CJ. You know,” he glanced up from his phone. “The thing with CJ and the Dean.”  
“Ah.” Sam looked at his watch. “He’s going to be late,” he said again.  
Josh didn’t respond. Sam squinted at Josh’s phone, and Josh smacked him away.

Toby was, indeed, late to Constitutional Law. Prof. McGarry gave him a look when he entered the classroom, but he continued teaching. The class divided into groups and worked on creating debate points for the Federalists and Antifederalists for different sections of the Constitution. Sam was the scribe, Josh raised his points and shot down ideas with obnoxious frequency. Toby rolled his pen back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.  
At the end of class, Leo caught Toby on his way out the door. “Toby!”  
Toby motioned for Sam and Josh to go on without him. He repositioned his back pack on his shoulder, scuffed at the carpet with his shoe, waiting for Leo to speak.  
“I noticed you weren’t very engaged in the group activity today,” began Prof. McGarry.  
“I’m tired,” said Toby softly.  
“Yeah?” Leo wasn’t buying it.  
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”  
“Okay.” Leo looked away and began stacking his papers, putting some in folders and sorting some into order.  
Toby sighed, rocked up onto his toes and back down again. Rocked. Up and down.  
“The incident, that happened a few days,” said Toby quietly.  
“The hate crime, you mean,” Leo corrected gently. “Call it what it is.”  
“I wrote about it. A friend and myself, we wrote about it in the paper and I just met with the Dean of Students.”  
“And?” asked Leo.  
“And . . . nothing is going to happen.” Toby rocked up and down.  
“And they said that?”  
“They didn’t have to,” said Toby, his eyes finally meeting Leo’s.  
Leo looked back at him, nodded. “Okay.”  
“It’s not,” muttered Toby.  
“Not what?” said Leo, gathering his things.  
“Not okay. It’s not okay.”  
“I know,” said Leo. “It’s not.”  
A silence held them for a few moments. The clock ticked, the sound flicked up against the stillness.  
“So how do you—” started Toby.  
“You do what you did: you remind people that it’s not okay. And then you leave it behind in the dust, and you keep going because you’ve got places to be.”  
Toby rubbed the palm of his hand into his forehead. “They’re protecting him. His parents are big donors, I guarantee it. It’s—”  
“It’s not fair. It’s not,” Leo agreed. “But you tackle with it, and then you leave it behind. You’re going places, Toby, and it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than one cheap bigot to slow you down.”  
Toby looked at his shoes, nodded.  
“Okay?” asked Leo.  
“Okay.”  
“A good friend of mine summed it up better than I can. So you fail, or somebody hurts you, somebody hurts someone you love, or justice isn’t served, whatever it is . . . you deal with it, and then you ask yourself one question.”  
Leo picked up his briefcase and laid a hand on Toby’s shoulder.  
“What’s next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> ALSO: if you are craving a CHRISTMAS FIC, check out this one by yours truly: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7460487. It's a continuation of the Noel episode so yes, VERY sappy and VERY hurt comforty and VERY festive.


	9. Number of Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh and Charlie's problems come to a head. Donna plays Shostakovich. Charlie opens up to C.J.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost exactly a year since I posted the first chapter of this, which communicates to me just how lazy I am when it comes to updating in a timely fashion. So, sorry about that. I get it, I suck. :)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter! To be honest it was really hard to write and I'm not sure I pulled it off quite how I wanted, but such is life. Tell me what you think, and thanks for reading!

“Hey, roomie.”  
Charlie looked up from his desk. He had never heard Josh use the word ”roomie” before. He knew what conversation they were about to have.  
“Yeah?” he responded carefully.  
Josh busied himself around the room, tidying up his crap by moving it from one pile to another pile. “Uh, do you know what time you’ll be going to bed? Tonight, that is?”  
Charlie turned back to his books. “Probably pretty late.”  
Josh snorted dryly, the body equivalent of a forceful eye-roll.   
“Here we go again,” breathed Charlie.  
Josh’s arm snapped and a stained thermos smacked his dresser loudly, causing Charlie to flinch. “That’s right,” he snapped, “here we go again.”  
“Sorry,” Charlie explained slowly, “but I have a test in Bio tomorrow that I need to study for.”  
“And what if I have a big test tomorrow too? What if I need to be well-rested in order to do well?”  
Charlie continued to highlight his notes calmly. “Do you have a test tomorrow?”  
Josh huffed. “No, but that’s not the point. It’s a matter of principle.”  
“No, it’s a matter of our roommate agreement, which you and I both signed.”  
“Yeah, which said don’t be a dick,” muttered Josh, pulling a sweatshirt over his head.  
Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said firmly, “it said that we agreed the room could be used as a study space and that there was no specific ‘lights out’ time.”  
“You don’t need to be condescending,” snapped Josh.  
“You don’t need to call me a dick,” responded Charlie.  
“Okay, well I didn’t know you were going to have three fucking majors, and I didn’t know I would—”  
Charlie waited, but Josh’s eyes were elsewhere. “Would…what?” he prompted.  
Josh shook his head. “You know what? Screw this,” he said, turning to grab his keys and phone.  
“Look man, I—” started Charlie. “Where are you going, we can—”  
“I’m going to hear some fucking Shostakovich,” he said, tossing on a jacket.  
“Okay then,” said Charlie.  
“Okay then,” said Josh, slamming the door behind him.  
The air in the room that was left behind was ugly, irritating. Charlie sat still a moment before getting up to turn off the overhead light. He returned to his desk, switched on his desk lamp, and continued to work.

The audience in the hall was predictably sparse for an undergraduate orchestra concert on a weeknight. Josh claimed a row for himself near the back. He disappeared into the chair as the music filled the empty spaces around him. He could only barely see Donna; they hid their second clarinets very well. But as the final chord echoed through the chamber, he could see her perfect, silk hair as she stood up with her peers for a bow. Josh clapped.

He waited by the big double doors in the lobby til she appeared, her case in hand. Her smile rounded a little when she noticed him.   
“You sounded great!” said Josh, jamming hands in his pockets awkwardly.  
“You didn’t hear me, you heard the orchestra,” laughed Donna.  
“No, I mean you, I heard you.”  
“If you heard me, that means I wasn’t playing with the group. That’s a bad thing,” she pointed out.  
Josh shrugged, looked at her blankly. “So, you didn’t sound great. Is that what I’m supposed to say?”  
Donna laughed again, and Josh could hear the music still perched on her lips.  
He shuffled along, keeping up with her walk and the briskness of the night air.

“Charlie?” She knocked lightly on the wooden door. No response. She sighed. Louder knock. “Charlie?”  
This time she was answered with a scrambled noise and some light profanity which followed. A few seconds later, the door swung open. Charlie squinted at the bright hallway. “Yeah?”  
“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?” apologized C.J. “I can come back another time.”  
Charlie rubbed his eyes. “No, no, it’s fine. What’s up?”  
“Are you sure? It’s really no problem, I can—”  
Charlie opened the door wider and waved her in. “Seriously, it’s a good thing you woke me. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”  
C.J. hesitated. “Okay,” she said and stepped into the room.  
“Sorry about the mess,” said Charlie, frantically gathering up papers which must have fallen when he was startled from sleep.  
“Don’t worry about it,” said C.J., running a hand through her hair. She hated this part of being an R.A. She let out a deep breath before she began. “Look, Charlie, I was wondering if we could have a conversation about the rooming situation.”  
Charlie straightened up, laughing lowly to himself. “I figured.”  
“Nobody is in trouble,” she assured him, “but Josh has brought to my attention that you two are having some difficulty communicating.”  
“No, we’re communicating,” corrected Charlie. “He communicated that he was fine with me staying up late studying at the beginning of the year. Then he communicated to me that my keeping different hours was ruining his life.”  
C.J. gave him a look. “You and I both know it’s not that simple.”  
“I communicated to him that he could buy a sleep mask.”  
“And was that something he’d be willing to do?”  
“No. He communicated to me that I should leave my own room and find somewhere else to study.”  
“And is that something you’d be willing to do?” asked C.J. gently.  
“Nope. It’s my room, I’m comfortable in here, I can focus here.”  
“That’s valid,” said C.J., tossing out her best affirming language. “Ultimately, I think you both want the same things. To succeed in class and get good sleep. Am I right?”  
Charlie shrugged. “I know that’s what I want.”  
Inwardly, C.J. buckled herself in. She gestured to the bed. “May I . . .”  
“Of course,” said Charlie, smiling distantly.  
“Okay, so let’s see,” C.J. began. “So you like to study at night, which keeps Josh from being able to sleep. Like how late are we talking?”  
Charlie leaned on the desk, clasped his hands in front of him. “Pretty late. I’m usually in bed by 4 though.”  
C.J. gave him another look. “And you have class at . . .”  
“Nine.”  
“Charlie, you need to be getting more sleep than that,” C.J. told him.  
“I know, I know it’s not ideal, but I have so much homework. It has to get done.”  
“Yeah but, not at the cost of your health,” pointed out C.J.  
Charlie waved her away. “I sleep more on the weekends. I need to get good grades.”  
“Overworking yourself is a common thing first semester,” explained C.J. “There’s a way to balance—”  
“Try telling that to my GPA,” snapped Charlie.  
“Grades don’t define you,” C.J. stated. “C’s get degrees. I know that doing well is important to you, but I think you’re putting a little too much value on grades.”  
Charlie opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His face stiffened.  
“What is it?” asked C.J.  
“It’s nothing, just . . .”  
“You can tell me anything, I won’t—”  
Charlie paused. Then, “Respectfully, Miss Cregg—”  
“God no, it’s C.J.” she laughed. “I’m your R.A. not your camp counselor.”  
Charlie nodded, acknowledging, and started again. “Respectfully, C.J., that’s a load of privileged bullshit.”  
Charlie enjoyed C.J.’s face for just a moment before taking advantage of her stupefied silence to say his peace.  
“Look, I know you mean well, but not everybody comes from Connecticut and not everybody’s parents are lawyers and doctors and accountants and not everybody can relax about their grades.”  
C.J. nodded. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”  
Charlie shrugged. “You don’t have to be sorry, I’m just saying. I wish I didn’t have to worry but I’m on scholarship, and it’s really strict, and I can’t afford to . . .”  
“Charlie, it’s okay,” said C.J. softly.  
Charlie breathed in sharply, like he needed a kick of oxygen to finish his thought. “I can’t afford to lose my scholarship because it’s my only shot at college, which is my only shot at finding a decent job, which is my only shot at supporting my little sister and so I’m sorry if Josh is tired. I’m tired too, but I have to buckle down and study because I don’t get a choice because yes, my life does depend on it.”  
He hadn’t realized he was damn near yelling, but the stark contrast of quiet which settled in the room told him he had lost it. Lost it at C.J., who was just trying to help, who was just doing her job. Charlie closed his eyes and sighed, dropping into his desk chair heavily.  
They were silent a long time. C.J. looked at her socks, tracing their argyle pattern in the shadowy dark of the room. Charlie bent over his knees, rubbing his hands together.  
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” said Charlie quietly.  
“No,” replied C.J. firmly. “I shouldn’t have assumed I knew your story. That was out of line and it was condescending, and you were right for calling me out on it.”  
Charlie nodded. “Yeah okay.”  
C.J. lifted herself off the bed, hesitantly. “I can go if you—”  
“I just don’t want you to think I’m mad at you,” continued Charlie, staring at the floor. “I’m mad at—”  
C.J. waited, breathed quietly.  
Suddenly, Charlie chuckled. An honest-to-God chuckle. He looked up, laughing grimly. “You know, I can’t remember the number of days.”  
C.J. moved carefully to sit on the floor. “The number of days?”  
“Since my mom died, the number of days since she was shot,” he explained, shaking his head, laughing dryly. “I could do the math, sure, but I used to remember the exact number of days just like that.”  
“Okay,” said C.J.  
“And now I just . . .” he stopped laughing, eyes focusing on the carpet.  
C.J. sat still. Charlie looked at her, met her eyes. “I can’t remember the number of days,” he said.  
“Okay,” said C.J.  
He dropped his gaze to the carpet again, and they sat in silence again. C.J. felt her feet glued to the carpet, mired by the heat in the room.   
“So,” she began, matter-of-factly. “As your RA, I could feed you the party line about time-management and self-care and I could give you the info for the student counseling center and pat myself on the back for fixing you up with a ribbon. But you and I both know it’s not that simple,”—Charlie snorted in agreement— “so how about we skip straight to the part where I steal all the snacks from the Res Life lounge and I quiz you on . . .”  
Charlie straightened up. “Biology.”  
“Biology it is,” replied C.J., getting to her feet.  
“C.J., I don’t need this to be a . . . a pity thing,” said Charlie, running a finger along his desk.  
“Screw pity,” scoffed C.J. “Look, I’m on duty tonight so I have to be up til 1 anyway and quizzing you will keep me awake. Besides,” she added, tying back her hair, “if you’re in the lounge when Josh comes back then I won’t have to deal with my residents’ drama. Makes my life easier.”  
Charlie laughed. “Okay.”  
“You’ll learn quickly that I am an extraordinarily selfish person.”  
“Okay.”  
“I’m just looking out for my self-interests, you know.”  
“Okay.”  
C.J. turned the doorknob.  
“Hey, I—”  
She looked back at him.  
“I know that was a lot, to just. To just dump on you,” said Charlie.  
“You wanna talk about it some more?” she raised her eyebrows.  
“God, no.”  
C.J. grinned. “Okay then. Let’s hit the books, Chuckles.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for the next chapter. :)


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